


An Ancient Pitch

by romangold



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Animal Transformation, Markiplier - Freeform, Witchcraft, jacksepticeye - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romangold/pseuds/romangold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark has been living in the city for a little while now, just doing what normal people do. Paying bills, making potions, feeding his cat...everything your friendly L.A. city witch is supposed to be up to! One little spell-gone-wrong never hurt anyone. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ancient Pitch

Mark never understood why the stereotype still stood. When people heard the word, they imagined a troll, some grumpy old pervert living as a hermit in some desolate swamp, eating the skin off of frogs and using their bladders as a potion to kill the powerful, mar the lovely, banish the wise.

 _Why do that when you could live it up in LA?_ Mark smirked as he got to the top of the stairs- his apartment was at the end of the hallway. With a snap, the door was unlocked and opened, and the city witch was home.

Mark’s mother hadn’t wanted him to be all the way on the other side of the country, so far away from all of their friends and family just for kicks. It was nice to be alone, though, to be able to listen to a silent place that was his.

Well, almost his. Of course, Mark had a familiar to help him along. His brown-and-cream cat was a clever fellow who had weaseled his way into the witch’s apartment- and through all of his protective enchantments, as well. The animal had a collar, but there had been no phone number or address on it, only a name.

“Sean!” Mark called out; he peeked over to his favorite armchair and saw that the twin bowls next to it were empty. He trusted his familiar to mind the house during the day while the human was off at work, and could often find the mangy thing daydreaming or chasing pidgeons on the fire escape.

Mark filled the bowls with food and water (Sean refused to eat anything but strips of chicken; sometimes his owner would treat him to bacon in the mornings, which the cat loved without question) and called again. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his armchair, familiar in his lap, and practice basic spells until it was late enough to nod off. It was relaxing. It was what Mark loved about living alone.

Finding Sean had been the best part about travelling to LA. The poor thing had been sitting in Mark’s kitchen, soaked to the bone and shivering, a month after he moved in. At first, the witch hadn’t been sure of whether to hand it over to a neighbor or to a shelter, but after picking up the cat and realizing how thin and desparate it was, he fed it, and then continued feed it. After that, Mark took to Sean quickly, and vice-versa; they often slept and rose together, and had important conversations in the sense of Mark talking and Sean cocking his head back and forth.

The witch was putting away the bag of chicken he kept in the fridge when he heard gentle taps growing louder as they approached the kitchen. Mark smiled as he shut the fridge, turning to greet his familiar.

Who, of course, had a bird in his mouth.

Mark’s face fell. “What…is that?” he asked, staring at the pigeon. He let out a surprised shriek when the thing flailed, but Sean simply sat, blue eyes never prouder. “Why…?” Mark began before his mind clicked into place. He smirked, wagging a finger at his cat, and rushed to his bedroom.

When the witch returned, Sean was perched on the coffee table, bird sitting, subdued, on the floor in front of it. Mark’s smile never left him as he flipped through his book of spells, anxious to at last dive into the newest one.

“Sean, I didn’t think you’d remember!” Mark congratulated; his cat’s blue eyes couldn’t have been more sarcastic, and he licked the fur down on his lean chest. Even after months of constant feeding, Sean still couldn’t seem to put on much weight, if any at all.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s time for our newest chapter in Transfiguration to begin!” he declared. He reached out to the windows of his apartment, and the shades all drew themselves. The lights flicked on as if of their own accord.

“This little birdie will have no idea what hit it,” the witch mused, going over the instructions in the ancient book once, then twice, then a third time just to be sure of himself. “You ready?” he turned his gaze to Sean, who gave a hearty noise that sounded positive enough to Mark.

Having practiced magic all his life, Mark knew well enough how to cast a silent spell, even if it was his first go at it. He had always been so adept at charms, creating his very own at the age of ten just to make his brother lose at all of the video games they played together.

The witch focused his free hand on the bird, kept it in his mind’s eye. If this spell worked right, that bird would no longer be a bird. This was the more advanced stage of animal transfiguration, being able to give it a more complex form than a chair or table or book.

The incantation came to him as if it was natural, and Mark felt a familiar burn building up in his head. It began to spread, as it always did, down his neck and spine, through his dominant arm and bubbling at the tips of his fingers. The bird was there, Mark could see it in his head. If he closed his eyes, it never left him. Soon, soon, it would be different. A burst of energy snapped itself through the young witch’s being and was ready to be set loose through his right hand, aimed at his target-

A squawk tore itself through Mark’s concentration, and he was so wrapped up in the moment that he barely noticed when the pigeon flapped its wings and moved, panicking, and Mark did the same. His hand moved with the bird, and he released the spell too early- it hit the TV, shattered it, ricocheted back across the room.

The shock of the bird flapping away as quickly as possible and the sudden force of the spell shooting out threw Mark back, and he landed on his back, winded. There was the smell of smoke from the busted TV, and he could hear the frantic flapping of that goddamn pigeon.

His only worry was that the spell hit something it wasn’t supposed to.

The lights had survived the little incident. They remained on, much to the man’s relief, and he sat up to inspect the results of the fiasco.

He was surprised that the television hadn’t collapsed already- it was crumpled in on itself, the screen cracked, smoking from the hole in the center. The bird was circling around the apartment, most likely searching for an escape route to get away from the crazy magic man who had tried to turn it into a human.

There was a groan that did not come from Mark. His eyes widened. His spell had worked, at least.

But on _what?_

With care, Mark stood, stooping slightly as so not to seem threatening. He ran a hand through his black hair, wondering how his couch would feel if it suddenly had sentient thoughts and blood running under its skin. His heart thumped a bit faster at the thought.

The couch was there. So was the armchair, the untouched bowls, the coffee table.

Oh.

 _Behind_ the coffee table.

Mark stared at the naked man lying on his stomach between the couch and the table, face turned away from his view. The witch whispered a quick spell, confused and hoping for anything; a towel materialized in his right hand. Mark muttered a relieved swear.

The dark-haired man was debating whether or not to continue his approach, however. He wasn’t sure what this human used to be; he could be hysterical, dangerous, even violent. Mark was way over his head on this one.

Too late for thinking. There was another groan, and the man stirred for real. The witch’s breath caught in his throat as the new human raised his head, moving his arms to try and sit up. He stopped when he…he seemed to realize that he wasn’t wearing clothing. That caught Mark off-guard. The man’s hand was on his chest. Perhaps it was just the shock of not being whatever he had been moments ago.

The witch spoke up. “Here,” he offered. The man snapped his head over to stare at Mark, then at the towel. Almost suspiciously, he reached over and took it, wasting no time in covering his lower half before sitting up.

“I…I’m…” the man on the floor croaked, staring at his hands, arms, legs. The sentence was let go into the tense air and fizzled out.

“What are you?” Mark asked, taking a chance on the fact that he wasn’t in danger.

The man’s unruly brown hair moved away as a pair of blue eyes turned to gaze into the other man’s brown ones. “What do you mean?” This new human was talented with words. He even had an accent- Irish, most certainly. That was positively curious. As if he knew how to speak before being changed. “I’m…human.”

“I mean before that,” Mark explained. “My spell made you human. What were you before that? A desk? A spoon?” He barely smirked when he quipped,“Should I start singing songs from ‘Beauty and the Beast’?”

The man didn’t respond. He looked down to the floor, searching. His arm moved so smoothly; his reflexes were perfect. Without a sound, he picked up something from underneath the coffee table and gazed at it with a certain look in his eye. Then he gave it to Mark.

It was red, with a silver circle attached to it. Inscribed on the circle was a name.

Mark’s mouth opened of its own accord. He couldn’t help but stare, then blink furiously. It wasn’t. It couldn’t. It wasn’t thinkable, or even possible.

Their eyes met. “…Sean?” Mark whispered.

The man pursed his lips. “Jack,” he returned.

The witch shook his head. “I…what?”

“My friends call me Jack,” the former cat informed him. “Well…they did. I…it’s a long story.” Jack stood, towel around his waist. He was still a skinny son of a bitch, and around the same height as Mark. “I’ve been alive for too long.”

Mark couldn’t take it anymore. “What?” he spluttered. “You’re my _cat!_ I _made_ you human!”

A long sigh left the other man’s lips. He let himself sink into the couch, as if he were suddenly exhausted. The witch could see an age in him, and started to think that maybe he was telling the truth. And how could a cat have an Irish accent, anyway, unless he had spoken before…?

“I’m not a cat,” the man said. He was quite calm. “I was never supposed to be a cat. I was born human, around 100 years ago." He looked away, as if ashamed. "I was a foolish witch, though, and I was cursed to take the form of a cat. In that form, I was given endless life until somebody would turn me back.” He hid his face in his hands. “I planned on trying to tell someone, to write something down…but it’s…it’s so easy to forget yourself, as an animal. So easy to turn primal, and then domestic. My mind slipped away from me..."

Mark saw the struggle. The difficulty to remain focused when you were forced into a form that you never wanted. And for 80 years or so to boot. No hope, no clear thoughts of your own that you recognized.

It must have been terrifying.

Remembering that this was- had been- his cat, and with the onslaught of emotions he must have been experiencing (as well as the fact that Mark found the man's brogue unbearably cute), the witch bit his bottom lip before smiling. It was a gentle gesture, but unable to be seen.

Carefully, carefully, Mark sat next to Jack on the couch. The man was taught as a bowstring, ready to snap.

“Hey,” Mark said, voice as soft as anything,“how about I get you some real clothes and something hot to drink? We can…talk all about this when you’re ready. That sound good?”

When Jack looked to the witch once again, his blue eyes were heavy and wet, too old to be comfortable despite the young face. It belonged to some inexperienced 25-year-old, not to this pained creature. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but instead just said,“Okay, Mark.” He sniffed and composed himself. “Okay.”

Jack didn’t cry then. He did later, when they sat in the kitchen, Jack in baggy sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a hoodie, all borrowed from Mark. They sat across from each other, mugs of hot chocolate warming their hands. Mark couldn’t help but be as blunt as ever.

“Obviously you’ll be staying here,” he announced at random. “It’s gotta be a culture shock, suddenly waking up human after living as a cat for 80 years or something.”

Jack let out a laugh. “Yeah.”

Another testy silence. “I guess this means I’ll need a new familiar,” the witch joked at his cup.

“Didn’t take you long to replace me, did it?” Jack quipped, and Mark stiffened before he saw the easy smirk and realized that it wasn’t a serious comment.

“Oh,” the taller man said. “Well, I didn’t mean a new familiar. I just meant a pet. Maybe a dog this time, like a golden…”

"That sounds nice. As long as it doesn't chew up your spellbooks." There was no smile in the former cat's eyes, but his expression was no longer tense, and he wore a soft grin. His teeth were crooked but his little smile was sweet and handsome. Mark smiled as well.

"Oh, I've had worse than that happen to them," the witch boasted. "Did I ever tell you about the time I dropped one of them in a creek? It was the January after I had turned twelve, and I jumped right in after it. The creek was freezing cold, too!"

He stopped talking when he heard a little noise come from across the table. He looked up to find Jack with his head bowed, trembling. Tears were dripping down into his drink. Without a second thought, Mark stood and leaned forward to fix it, to do whatever he could to make it better. He couldn’t bear to watch a pair of eyes like that cry, and so bitterly. As if everything on Earth was lost, with not a drop of hope left in the world.

Mark’s hands found Jack’s shoulders, and then their noses were inches apart. Their eyes were locked again, and Mark watched as tears leaked freely down the other’s cheeks.

“You’ll be okay,” Mark whispered. “We’ll be okay. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. We’re sticking together, you got that? Cat, human, I don’t give a shit. We’re connected. And it’s gonna stay that way.”

Jack just managed to nod before the tears came harder, and he began to sob, and Mark couldn’t do anything but press their foreheads together and hold him and wait. And when he was done crying, they smiled at each other and made some quick jokes. And when they were all done talking for the night, they headed off to bed, following each other.

Jack sat on Mark’s bed and thought for a moment before claiming one side and lying down. The witch hesitated before lying himself down on the other side, wondering if he should just go with it or imagine that Jack was still Sean and not some 100-year-old with a baby face.

In the dark, Jack’s hand found Mark’s.

Sleep came easy for them both.


End file.
